


A Tide of Ice and Blood

by RonnieWriting



Category: Frozen (Disney Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, Alternate Universe - Vikings, Dark, Dark Fantasy, F/F, F/M, Game of Thrones References, Game of Thrones-esque, Gen, Inspired by Game of Thrones, Kristanna, M/M, Original Fantasy World, a copious amount of original characters, fantasy gods, frozen meets game of thrones, kristanna is endgame but its a slowburn/ enemies to lovers sitch, mythical creatures, romance among the war
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:14:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29455107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RonnieWriting/pseuds/RonnieWriting
Summary: Its been a few years since the North lost a rebellion to the South and every year tension builds. The King of Aren Fell has died and now his children must grapple with the demands of the crown with another war on the horizon.How does a Northern fisherman's son come to fall in love with the Princess of a Southern kingdom? For what is their love worth if it might destroy both of their families?(a very game-of-thrones take on a kristanna story)
Relationships: Agnarr/Iduna (Disney), Anna & Hans (Disney), Anna & Kristoff (Disney), Anna (Disney) & Original Character(s), Bulda/Cliff (Disney), Elsa & Honeymaren (Disney), Hans's Brothers (Disney)/Original Character(s), Kristoff (Disney) & Original Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	A Tide of Ice and Blood

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Tide of Ice and Blood (Beta)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23559538) by [RonnieWriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RonnieWriting/pseuds/RonnieWriting). 



He remembered what his mother used to tell him about the southerners:  _ “...All cheaters, all liars, godless, green children who know nothing of the strength that the cold breeds.” _ His mother always proved to tell no false word. 

Without their steel clothed men or poison-dipped arrows they were sure not to survive a minute against himself and his own. Some of his earliest memories were watching his father perform hard labour tasks, progressing to the days when he started helping out alongside his siblings. It was a fact that northmen were built differently than their southron foemen. But it was their cheating ways that ended any prospect of a fair fight. After their attack he was captured, thrown in chains, bruised bloody and irreparable.

Nothing was akin to the certainty of blood. It came with life and with its end, and no man could avoid spilling it throughout his years. Perhaps it was  _ bloodshed _ itself that was unavoidable- for would the fuel of humanity be so important if it were not so easily spillt? 

It was his own that trickled down the length of his nose and left a spotted trail behind him. Along a picturesque hall with painted portraits and grand tapestries- the likes of which he had never seen- he was the outlier- ragged breathed and tumbling over every other step the guards forced him to take. He and his kin would not be permitted in these walls in a state less than inches from death.

In such a state it was only the anguish of the unknown that kept a fire kindling in his gut. There had been three others with him: Jorand, Ryder and Glenn. He’d known each of them his entire life, good friends, blood of his blood. All of which might have been cut down with him or shot full of poison arrows, he came to woefully consider that the last time he might see them has already been. And they had the audacity to call  _ his _ people ‘feral’.

The blur of the stone hall below him never seemed to end. The two at his side heaved him this way and that like livestock for the block, gripping him by his shoulders, neck and hair. 

One of them was speaking, though his accent was nothing like the sort folk had in the north. “It's lucky for this one the queen’s off east, she’d have his head spiked.” 

The other replied, “Rather  _ unlucky _ , I’d say. I’ve been to The Hallows, fucker’s gonna  _ wish _ he was put on a spike.”

Without warning, they rounded another corner, the metal on their shoes clanking heavy against the stone in aggressive unison. Then, the sound became crisper, and sure enough, the natural stone had eased into polished, perfectly cut limestone. 

The hand on the scruff of his neck slacked as the pace of the men beside him waned and he found enough strength to look up. They were approaching a set of great twin-doors barred with iron and warded by two more gilded men standing sentry. It was becoming harder to see these men for the flesh and blood that was tucked behind garb that made them look no different from the great-blades they kept about their hips.

When the doors were opened for him, a great hall greeted him. Until this moment, he had no sure thought to the scale of this keep- only from the distance had he even glimpsed the castle before they were run down- but now inside, it became more apparent. He’d never been to a place in the north where it could even be half the size of this structure, and the lavishness of it all was otherworldly. 

The centre of the room was flanked by two rows of large columns, unlit fire pits surrounding the base of each. The light of day sept in through a grand ring of glass windows that stretched high and ended where the vaulted ceiling arched into a grand dome, and from the very top where the glass was tinted, the sunlight seemed to bleed across the room in beams as red as blood. 

The gilded men led him through the doors that shut loudly behind him and through the column. There were voices in the great room, but far away and from what seemed every direction. Under the vaulted dome, centred in the back of the room, was a stepped platform where atop the highest step sat a regal chair- its likeness carved from oak as black as smoke and unfashioned for any supposed comfort. They brought him to the foot of the stairs, in the centre of the octagonal floor- where, he assumed, in the peak of the day, the red light would fall directly onto him- and forced him onto his knees, his shackled arms clanking unkindly behind him. 

Finally in a place dehumanizing enough, he allowed his neck the barest of swivels to take in further details. The voices that traveled around the ceiling belonged to a small mass of figures in the galleries on either side of the hall he entered through. All of them were dressed well, some more opulent than others in fine cloth-of-gold or colourful silk- the ladies wore their hair up in extravagant fashion where others’ were veiled. They all finished murmuring when doors either side of him were opened.

From those doors marched in several armored men, though these wore full helms that were forged to resemble different animals- a bear, a stag, a boar, a horse, and a wolf. The first of them came to stand in front of the steps while the last of them, the wolf, waited by the door to escort those that would enter next.

First and fast paced, came a tall, young man, he strut past the wolf and wasted little time in climbing the steps. Behind him, more purposeful and careful, came an older man that took the wolf’s arm and let him guide him up the steps.

The features of the young man were incredibly striking. He had shoulder-length ashy blonde hair that was pulled back rather carelessly into a half style that highlighted the angles of his face. His eyes were crisp and blue, piercing and fierce but made less impressive by the rather wide ridge in what was otherwise a perfectly thin nose- it almost seemed to speak over the entirety of his delicate features, creating what was a most arresting face. He wore a deep blue surcoat open over his grey tunic and he made no motion to deem himself improperly dressed even as the gallery hummed in disapproval.

The older one was dressed in flowing layers of ebony silk. Slow as he was, the sound of his skirt sweeping across the stone floor sounded almost natural, like how the rustling of trees in the night kept the dread of silence away. Old as he appeared, he still had much of his hair, combed back and still clinging to a rusty brown though weathered and whitened. With one arm tucked behind the folds of his long sleeve and the other braced against the wolf’s metallic arm, he too climbed the steps.

The both of them stood side by side on the highest step and the wolf joined the line of steel animals. Neither of them sat in the chair. 

It was the younger man who spoke first, “Surrender your name,  _ Northman _ .”

He could feel the blood still fresh on his lip. He glared at the man, gathered his contempt, and spit the blood from the back of his throat onto the floor in front of him. 

It earned him a ruthless kick in the back by one of the men that dragged him in, sending him face-first into his last attempt at dignity. There was laughter at that, and it rang around the walls like the insistent toll of a bell. He wasn’t allowed to stay there long, a merciless hand grabbed a fist full of his hair and yanked him back on his haunches. 

“Your name,  _ Iceherder _ .” The young man smirked. A slur, to be sure, but one he’d never heard of- that did not negate its purpose, however.

The fist in his hair tightened back not noticeably, so he swallowed some air and answered, “Kristoff.”

“And,  _ Kristoff _ , what is it you seek here- so far past the Winterwoods-” he chuckled, amused and raised his voice to the gallery, “perhaps a map?!” 

Kristoff said nothing. He wondered if he was the first of his group to be dragged into this room. If they intended to interrogate them all surely they’d do so separately. He looked to the smear he left on the floor in front of him, it was stark against the pristine tile…

The laughter died down again once it was understood that their prisoner was intent on guarding his tongue and it made the young man’s brow twitch a little. The older man was still yet to say anything but he kept an interested eye on him. 

“If you’re without your tongue you may find it a challenge to call on your Gods to save you from the spike-  _ tell me why you are here _ .”

After considering silence and where it may send him he raised his voice to the extent that he could. “Why don’t you ask your ghost king?” 

There was an angry urge that rose behind his eyes at that response but it was the older man who offered the response, “To which king would you be referring?” 

The young man’s composure slipped, he scowled at the old man, “To  _ which _ does not matter,” then he again directed his voice to the audience, “this man has committed treason by crossing into our land and we’d be foolish to expect anything other than malignant conspiracy on their minds.

In the name of the Queen Elsa Ardelle, third of her name, I, Ingar Aren sentence you to imprisonment where you will remain until the queen’s return and your public execution can be arranged.” He crossed his arms behind his back. “Ser Brandeth.”

The horse-helmed knight turned to Ingar and inclined his head. “I’m yours to command, my lord.”

“Take Kristoff to the dungeons. See that he’s accommodated a cell deep enough so that he might speak to our ghost king himself.”

  
  


The only light in the cell came from the flicker of a torch posted outside the bars but it was more than Kristoff was used to seeing by in darker places. The blood was finally allowed to dry against his skin in the coolness of the dirt and stone around him and with his back against the wall, he finally let out a few low and steady breaths. There wasn’t much sound around him and for that disturbed him.He had no way of knowing if Jorand, Ryder or Glenn would be taken this far down into the castle cells. If the Castle was huge, the tunnels beneath were bigger- almost crypt-like. He didn’t question the fact that the royal dead were buried here.

After a fair moment spent just taking in the air and letting his muscles slack under their own weight, he brought himself slowly to his feet. Ser Brandeth had not instructed the turnkey to remove his shackles but Kristoff was able to maneuver them so that they hung from the front of him instead of the back.

If Kristoff’s mother, Bulda, was here, she might’ve been able to talk to the ghosts hidden in these walls but he had never chased such skills. Still, he ran a hand across the coarse surface of the walls to better understand his surroundings. 

On the last wall he scanned, his fingers brushed against a different texture. It was stiff and twisted and it spanned the entire length of the wall, branching out on either side.  _ Roots _ , he realised. And from closer inspection he noticed it was a heart tree.

Heart trees were of many in the north, great white trees with red leaves. All sorts of ceremonies were performed under these trees for there were many stories about them being used as mediums for the Gods to speak through. 

Kristoff sat down in front of the tangle and spread his hands as far as the chains would let him and he leaned forward against roots with closed eyes. When his forehead touched the tree he was blinded by sunlight.

He was above ground now, standing in a courtyard covered in flowering bushes and fruiting trees. Birds were chirping sweetly and there was a woman’s voice that softly sang along to an unheard melody. He walked across the gardens until he saw her. 

She was sitting under the heart tree, eyes closed and a book forgotten in her lap. Her long hair was the same colour as the leaves and they moved in unison under the will of the gentle breeze. 

He wandered closer to her, steps as silent as his breath, until he was almost standing over her. 

She paid him no acknowledgement and continued to sing a song he didn’t know:

_ There, there, you see now, he’s rising on the hill _

_ He had a wench on his arm and then he crossed the rill _

_ She kissed his sword with silver lips and for her pain it snowed _

_ For she had not braved the rill and blood was what was owed _

_ For a beast waits for war in the heart of ev’ryman _

_ And it stirs when she put a sword in his hand _

As he listened to her song he had quietly fallen to his knees in front of her. Her voice was bright and calming and her fingertips were absentmindedly drumming a half-pattern against the cover of her book. 

She smiled, beaming in the dappled light and leant back against the thick trunk of the heart tree. But as soon as she did so, she gasped in shock, eyes flying open. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hello Hello!! This story has seen a number of rewrites but I've been working really hard behind the scenes on a lot of the lore, concepts and final plot to this story!  
> This chapter is honestly not very different from the original draft apart from it being better written and with the addition of introductory exposition and scene setting. I haven't yet written any more chapters but I have them outlined and with more plans for slowly introducing the world I've been building so I hope that this sort of 'Pilot' is ok in the mean time!!
> 
> This story has been a big, long-term project of mine and its becoming something I'm genuinely proud of and excited to share with anyone who is interested in reading it!!!   
> A big, continuous thank you to Jae who has been my rock through a lot of the writing and concepting process, without whom this story wouldn't exist. xx


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